


Crowley wears tartan

by Santillatron



Series: Discworld visitors [2]
Category: Discworld - Terry Pratchett, Good Omens (TV), Good Omens - Neil Gaiman & Terry Pratchett
Genre: Aziraphale (Good Omens) is a bastard, Beelzebub (Good Omens) and Michael (Good Omens) get cameos, Flaming swords, Ineffable Husbands (Good Omens), M/M, Mischief, Pranks, terrible Scottish accents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-04
Updated: 2020-01-04
Packaged: 2021-02-26 06:13:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,618
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21908752
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Santillatron/pseuds/Santillatron
Summary: The Librarian isn't the only one from the Discworld that can move between worlds...
Relationships: Aziraphale & Crowley (Good Omens), Aziraphale/Crowley (Good Omens)
Series: Discworld visitors [2]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1591324
Comments: 14
Kudos: 60





	Crowley wears tartan

**Author's Note:**

> Because Crowley deserves some fun too. 
> 
> And it's an excuse to get him in a kilt.

“Crowley! Oh thank goodness!” Aziraphale sounded stressed. “I need you at the bookshop right away! I don’t know how they got in, but I need your help please my dear!”

_This is it,_ thought Crowley as the anxiety rose in his throat, _they’ve come back to get us again._ “On my way!” He yelled into the phone as he grabbed his jacket and sprinted out the door into the waiting Bentley. This sounded serious. He knew Aziraphale could handle himself when it came to intruders, but for him to call Crowley in such a panic sent the demon’s imagination into overdrive. 

He screeched up to his usual spot and leapt out of the car, throwing himself through the bookshop door, scowl already in place. 

But there was nobody there. Yet the angel was doing that fiddly hands thing that meant he was very nervous. 

“Crowley!” Aziraphale scolded “Were you flouting the laws of physics as well as the road this time? You’ll get yourself discorporated!”

“You sounded stressed angel, thought there was an emergency.” Crowley grumbled. All that wasted effort. 

Aziraphale huffed and rolled his eyes, but the fond expression belied his irritation. 

“Well it’s good to know how quickly you can get here if there ever is an emergency. However this time it’s not a threat to life, just the books.” Aziraphale had his pleading eyes on now. 

“The books?” Crowley frowned. What could harm the books that wouldn’t also harm his angel? 

Aziraphale saw his confused expression. “Well, it’s mice. At least I think it’s mice. I’ve never seen them, but things keep going missing. I wondered, if you might…?” Now the angel was shamelessly deploying the hopeful puppy look. Crowley gave an exaggerated sigh, mostly to show an attempt at resisting what he knew he was inevitably going to agree to do. 

“Fine. Any customers in?”

“No I’ve locked the door.” 

Crowley relaxed his hold on his corporation and let his serpent senses come to the surface. He knew it made his face do weird things, but the angel had never minded. Humans got a bit funny about it though. He focused on what he could hear and smell, freshly forked tongue darting out.

“‘sssssno good angel, can only ssssssmell you.” He murmured. “Can you leave me to it for an hour or sssssso?” Aziraphale may not mind the strange face, but Crowley was pretty sure he wouldn’t like what would happen if Crowley actually found a mouse in this form. 

“Oh! Of course my dear. I’ll be at the cafe down the road. I hope you have success! And thank you - I’ll owe you one for this.” And with that Aziraphale left. 

Now Crowley could really start the hunt in earnest. He dropped fully into his snake form so he could take full advantage of all of its abilities, and slithered silently around the edges of the bookshop. Not a single hint of mouse, but there was a strange scent he’d never smelled before. It was earthy, overwhelmingly masculine, faintly alcoholic, reminiscent of Shadwell except it had a very non-human undertone that he didn’t recognise. Sheep? No it didn't smell like anything he'd encountered before. Not human, but human-adjacent. It seemed to centre itself around the drinks cabinet. Crowley settled himself in the shadow under the armchair and waited. 

He didn’t have to wait too long before he heard scurrying. He darted out and raised his head up high with the intention of frightening whatever small, squeaky, furry, trespasser he found (the rats had spread word that the bookshop was off limits, so anything that had come in knew the risks) into a swift, and permanent, departure from the establishment, if not the world if it came to it. 

But instead his jaw dropped, and not in a deliberate ‘here are my fangs, aren’t they nice and pointy, now bugger off’ sort of way. 

“Crivens!”

“Wha’s a Bigjob doon wi’ a snake like tha’?”

“Dis'nae matter, kick it inna heid and offski, ye ken? Afore it tries tae eat ye! Haway! Yan, Tan, TETHRA!”

_They even talk like Shadwell,_ Crowley thought briefly, before he discovered one serious flaw of being a snake right now. Namely, that all of him was currently at kicking level for several disturbingly strong six inch tall assailants. 

* * *

Aziraphale had been relieved when Crowley suggested he vacate the bookshop for the duration of... whatever he was going to do. He was supposed to love and cherish all of God’s creatures, but when it came to his books he would make an exception. That didn’t mean he wanted to know what happened, although he could hazard a guess. So he drank his tea, and enjoyed his generous slice of Dundee cake. After an hour and a half (he really didn’t want to arrive back at the wrong moment) he cautiously made his way back to the bookshop. He could hear multiple voices raised in song as he approached, and was surprised to discover that it was coming from within his bookshop. He gingerly pushed open the door, and was wholly unprepared for the spectacle that greeted him. 

Crowley was sprawled on the floor, propped up on one elbow, singing loudly in what Aziraphale would always think of as his ‘Nanny Ashtoreth accent’, waving a glass of what smelled suspiciously like his good whisky around. He had a black eye and a split lip, and his normally immaculate hair had flopped roguishly down over his forehead. His sunglasses were nowhere to be seen.  He was currently being perched upon by about 10 small, blue men with alarmingly bright red hair and beards who were also drinking and singing raucously. One had somehow got hold of the entire whisky bottle and was careering around with careless abandon, whilst another was clinging to the neck of it. 

But that wasn’t even the strangest part of this bizarre tableau. 

“Crowley, what are you wearing?!” Aziraphale exclaimed. The little blue men glanced up, judged him as a low risk, then ignored him completely in favour of the disagreement that was commencing between two of them over the precise lyrics of the song. 

“Angel! Got some goo’ news! S’not mice ye’ve go’!” The demon bellowed over the cries. 

Aziraphale looked pointedly at Crowley’s long legs, one eyebrow raised. Crowley looked at his legs splayed out in front of him as well, briefly looking surprised by them. On his top half he had removed his jacket, keeping his usual very dark grey t-shirt, necktie and black waistcoat combo. On the bottom however…

“’S a kilt angel, had to have one to... to... just’ neededed one.” He managed, waving his glass around.

“I can see it’s a kilt Crowley, I was merely curious at your choice of pattern.”

“Eh, had to come up with summat. Musta seen it around summ’er. You don’ like it?” Crowley’s brow attempted to furrow in concern, which merely caused him to go slightly cross eyed. 

“On the contrary my dear, I think it’s an excellent choice” Aziraphale gave a small smile, adjusting his bowtie. “Although strictly speaking you are supposed to seek permission first, although I appreciate that has never been your forte.” The angel’s eyes were twinkling strangely. 

Crowley's gaze slithered down to the bowtie. The tartan bowtie that Aziraphale always wore. The tartan bowtie that matched the tartan of his kilt perfectly. 

_Oh._

Oh yes, Crowley remembered now. Only family were allowed to wear clan tartan. Crowley hadn’t realised it was Aziraphale’s personal pattern, but it did explain why he’d been in Edinburgh so long all those centuries ago. 

“Shit, sorrory, I’ll change it, jus’ gimme a mo..” Crowley sat up, scattering the squabbling blue men as he did so. 

“No, no it’s perfectly fine my dear.” Aziraphale looked him leisurely up and down, his head tilted slightly to one side and a smirk emerging. “Suits you.” 

Crowley blushed furiously. The fight now behind him was getting rather loud. Crowley got up, limbs flailing around like a newborn deer as he worked out which way gravity worked. Aziraphale briefly wondered if Crowley knew all of the traditions surrounding the wearing of kilts, but sadly the black, snake adorned sporran did its job and he was none the wiser. Miraculously Crowley didn’t spill a drop of his single-malt on his erratic journey to his feet. The little blue men danced expertly around the stumbling snakeskin boots, occasionally giving them a kick for good measure. 

Eventually Aziraphale’s patience wore out, and once Crowley was sufficiently clear he clicked his fingers, and suddenly all the marauders were floating in the air, lined up at face height as if they'd just been picked up by the scruff of their necks. They continued to struggle and lash out at each other, although this merely left them kicking themselves by accident. An event that didn’t seem to deter them. 

After a while it became clear that they were not going to stop any time soon. 

“If you’ve quite finished?” Aziraphale said calmly. He didn’t shout, but he did put some divinity behind his words which had a greater effect. All the creatures stopped and stared. 

“Crivens! Ye dinnae tell us ye ha’ a hag here!” One of them exclaimed, looking at Crowley with narrowed eyes. 

Aziraphale pursed his lips in irritation. This caused an eruption of groans from the tiny men. 

“Och nooo! No’ tha pursin’ o’ th’ lips!”

“Waily, waily, waily!”

“Crivens!”

"Spare us th' tappin' o' th' feet!"

“Ye cannae ha’ ma troosers!”

Aziraphale looked at Crowley in confusion, then back to the floating miscreants. 

“How can I take your trousers, when you aren’t wearing any?” He asked in exasperation. All the little blue men stopped their wailing and looked at him suspiciously. 

“Tha’s some verrry fancy logic there, ye would'nae be a lawyer now would ye?” As one they all pulled out swords that had been stuffed through belts and straps and and looked at them. The swords were nearly as big as they were. “Nae glow. So, wha’ are ye then?”

Aziraphale rolled his eyes, eliciting a fresh round of groans from the men. “I am an angel, he is a demon, and you are in my bookshop! If you have harmed any of my books there will be retribution.” Aziraphale was getting frustrated now, and his divine power was crackling in the air around him. The swords the tiny men were holding started to suggest they might be thinking of bursting into flame. Crowley had decided it would be wise to sober up. He grimaced as he touched his split lip, then rolled his head and shoulders as the injuries faded. Now fully healed and sober, he was looking decidedly sheepish. 

“They’re not after your books angel,” he said quietly, accent back to his usual. “They’re more interested in the booze frankly. Spirited little buggers they are. Damn near got the drop on me.” He shrugged. 

Aziraphale had well and truly had enough. 

“Would someone please tell me what the Hell is going on?!”

Crowley looked nervously at the flickering swords and spoke hurriedly. The tiny men were also looking curiously at their swords, swishing them around experimentally. One managed to catch the other’s vibrant red beard and it caught alight. This caused much excitement as the unfortunate being tried to put it out while the others laughed raucously. 

“They’re Pictsies Angel.”

“Pixies?!” Aziraphale eyed the tiny men incredulously. 

“Nae Pixies, _Pictsies_!” Roared one “An’ I’ll thank ye tae remember tha’! Else ye’ll be feelin’ ma heid just a’ soon as I’m doon from this witchery, ye ken?!” He looked furious. 

“Yep, definitely not pixies.” Crowley said, wincing at a memory as he said it. “Nac Mac Feegles. They come from the same place at The Librarian, but a different part of it. Sort of. They used to live in Fairyland but they rebelled against a tyrannical Queen and were exiled. Or they got kicked out for being drunk at two in the afternoon, they're not quite sure. Bit of a 'saunter vaguely to the exit' situation. Yes I know, don't look at me like that. They have this thing they call the ‘crawstep’ which they use to slip between worlds. They are very proud of the fact that they can get in and out of anywhere. Except maybe pubs. They have a bit of trouble getting out of pubs. They mostly like drinking,” a cheer rose from the Pictsies,  “fighting,” another cheer, “and, er..”

“Stealin’” One proclaimed loudly. Crowley winced again. 

Aziraphale rounded on them.

“And just what, pray, do you think you are going to steal?!” He thundered as the swords burst into full flame.

“Evrrrrythin’ tha’ isnae nailed doon!” The same, enterprising creature informed him proudly. 

“Aye, we dinnae bring th’ claw for th’ nails this time.” Another said wistfully. 

“We've no appetite for books though. We never got the hang o' the readin'. Now if ye don’ mind we’d rrrather be back on th’ floor. Tis a bit drrraughty on the nethers up here.”

Aziraphale looked slightly more comfortable. He was relieved that they didn't know the value of some of the tomes in his collection. He lowered them gently onto the coffee table, and sat down facing them. His expression no less thunderous.

“Now yer nae lawyer, but why the chuff are oor swords a’flamin like anythin’?” One of the Pictsies asked, pointing to his weapon. He seemed to be their leader. They were making no moves to run or fight even though they were freed now. 

“My apologies gentlemen,” Aziraphale said slowly. “It’s a thing that happens when I use my divine powers in anger. Any angelic blades in the vicinity, or indeed anything vaguely sword-like that I am holding, gets a bit thermally excited. Hazards of the job I’m afraid. I'm surprised your swords have reacted, but it should die down soon enough.”

Crowley thought back to the airbase in Tadfield at the end of the world. Aziraphale had thought about threatening him with his sword, but it hadn’t been alight. Interesting. 

“Aye, and just wha' sort o' job is requirin’ of a flamin’ sword then?” The Pictsie leader asked. “And where does one apply for such a position?”

“Ah, I did mention I’m an angel and he’s a demon, yes? Well, more accurately I’m a cherub, but Principality was my job, and it came with flaming swords. It seems to have stuck even though we’re now exiled from Heaven and Hell respectively.” Aziraphale said. The Pictsie swords began to die down to the obvious frustration of the holders. 

“I’m not sure it’s something I can teach you, although you do come from a dimension full of magic, and your blades seem receptive, so it may be possible.” Aziraphale said, clearly considering it. 

As Crowley sat down, carefully keeping his legs down off the sofa for once, Aziraphale had an idea. 

“I say, this crawstep of yours, can you get into anywhere? Even Heaven do you think?” He asked, eyes twinkling. Crowley sat forward, intrigued. That twinkle usually meant Aziraphale was about to be a bit of a bastard to someone.

“I tell you what, if I have a go at teaching you to ignite your swords, do you think you could run a couple of errands for me?”

“Oh aye? And just what would this ‘errand’ involve?” The Pictsie eyed him suspiciously. 

“Just a couple of deliveries, my good fellow, but it would require your unique stealth and ability to get into places you shouldn’t be.” Aziraphale could see the men shifting uncomfortably. "Of course if you're not up to the challenge then I'll quite understand. This is a rather tricky place to get into." Aziraphale sat back and smiled gently as they bristled and grumbled amongst themselves. Crowley was relishing the level of bastadry at work in front of him. Their leader stepped forward.

“I’m listenin’…”

“Wonderful! Crowley, my dear, would you be so kind as to miracle me up a bath towel, but one as evil and damned as you can make it?” Aziraphale was grinning like a tiger. He sat back and clapped his own hands together, opening them slowly to reveal a large rubber duck. It looked very smug. 

Crowley’s grin was more like a shark as he realised what the angel was planning, and he quickly shook his hands as a bath towel materialised in them. He looked at the duck. 

He snorted. “Looks like Gabriel.” 

“It doesn’t, rather, doesn’t it?” Aziraphale said, grinning even wider as he examined it.  “Now, what I’d like you gentlemen to do is…”

* * *

Crowley was beside himself with glee. The Wee Free Men had excelled themselves, and now, as promised, Aziraphale was going to try and teach them how to light their swords. There was no way they were going to mess with fire in the bookshop, so Crowley was driving them out into the countryside where they had some space. 

It turned out the Pictsies had never seen a car, and Crowley was delighting himself with showing them exactly what the Bentley could do with a demon at the wheel. The ones that weren't plastered to the inside of the windscreen were hanging out of the windows, and all of them were whooping with joy. Naturally Crowley was grinning like a maniac whilst showing off his driving skills, much to Aziraphale's dismay. Queen were singing 'Don't stop me now', in the Bentley's usual apt display of song choice. 

After a while they reached an abandoned chalk quarry. Sunk low so it couldn't be seen from the surrounding area and devoid of any significant plant life that could catch alight, it was the perfect training ground. Aziraphale and the Pictsies walked to the centre of the area, while Crowley settled himself on one of the ledges around the edge. He had no desire to mess with heavenly fire and was content to watch the proceedings. 

And if that gave him the chance to discretely admire the angel with his sleeves rolled up from behind his replaced sunglasses, then that was just a bonus. He watched as the Nac Mac Feegle eagerly lined up in front of the angel, then gawped as Aziraphale looked down towards his eager pupils, thrust one arm out above his head, and his sword materialised in his hand. If he didn't know better he'd have sword the angel deliberately chose the iconic Freddie Mercury pose, but as Aziraphale never really paid any attention to media the chances of him having seen it were slim to nothing. Aziraphale's manner changed as his fingers closed around the hilt. Suddenly his back was somehow straighter, his shoulders set more square. His face more authoritative. Crowley could now see why they had seen fit to put him in command of a platoon, he could feel the raw holy power from his ledge. Watching intently as Aziraphale twirled the sword around expertly, Crowley realised just how much he forgot that his bumbling, soft angel was actually a heavenly warrior. His amenable manner was a choice, a conscious decision to put others at ease. If anyone ever caught a glimpse of what he was truly capable of, they'd be terrified. For Crowley, the feeling this display stirred was no less primal, but was urging him to run to, rather than away. He remembered to shut his mouth just as Aziraphale looked up at him and he was very thankful for his sunglasses, even at this distance. 

Crowley watched intently as the lessons began, and sure enough later on, as the light was starting to fade, 10 small flames were barreling around one very proud looking angel, who was quite literally glowing. Crowley took a moment to commit this vision to memory, the angel in just his shirt and waistcoat, sleeves rolled up to his elbows, collar undone and bowtie discarded, wielding a sword with a masterful hand, his cheeks flushed pink with the exertion and excitement dancing in his eyes. And literally glowing, his hair shining the brightest as his halo hinted at its existence. 

With a sigh, Crowley stood up and headed down to the makeshift training arena. 

Aziraphale noticed the movement and looked up as Crowley spread his wings and glided gracefully down the quarry face to where they had been practicing. He landed a short distance away and when Aziraphale failed to move from his open-mouthed trance, he quirked an eyebrow at the lit swords. Aziraphale shook himself, and ignoring the demon's smirk turned back to the Nac Mac Feegle, who, having been left alone for more than a few seconds, were naturally starting to wave their swords at each other with a bit more intent. 

"Alright lads, swords out now." He commanded, noticing the way Crowley's throat moved as he spoke. Once the swords were all begrudgingly extinguished, and Aziraphale's was popped back to wherever the angel had called it from, Crowley sauntered over. 

"We should head back to the bookshop Angel, it's getting dark and soon humans will start wondering what all the lights are. We don't want the fire brigade storming in." He said. Turning to the Wee Free Men he continued "and you can keep those swords put away in the Bentley if you know what's good for you."

At the start of a grumble, and no move to put the swords away Crowley clicked his fingers and suddenly all the swords were in his hand. The Nac Mac Feegle didn't seem too bothered, instead looking to their leader who simply held up Crowley's watch with a smirk. Aziraphale nearly stifled a giggle. 

"I reckon we can make our ain way back fra' here ye ken? So a trade, and we'll be on our way?" He smirked, waving the watch. "And I'm only offrin' as a sign o' respect. Try tha' again and I cannae guarantee we'll be so accommodatin'..."

Crowley grinned and crouched down with the swords held out in a closed hand, his other hand open to take the watch. The trade was made with both parties keeping a respectfully watchful eye on the other. 

"At least let me drive you back to London." Crowley suggested, barely turning on the demonic charm. "One more go in the Bentley?"

They all piled back in, the Nac Mac Feegle all excitedly taking up their position on the dashboard, hands and faces pressed against the screen impatiently. It turned out they also had pretty good night vision, so were whooping and cheering over Aziraphale's yelps all the way back to London. 

Once they were back at the bookshop, Aziraphale got out quickly and headed inside, focused on getting a much needed drink. Crowley shut the doors before the Wee Free Men could get out, causing them all to turn on him suspiciously. 

"Looks guys," he said "Aziraphale is an angel, always up to good and thwarting demonic wiles and all that. He's not a big fan of stealing is what I'm saying. So hands off his bookshop, and I'm sure we can come to some sort of arrangement. I'm a demon, no such desire for do-gooding, no qualms about property ownership and the like, and a very good knowledge of where the best alcohol can be obtained around here. So if you're ever in town, you know where to find me." He lowered his sunglasses so he could wink at the clan's leader. "Ye ken?"

After exchanging knowing grins, Crowley opened the doors and they all piled out. 

"Nightcap?" He offered as they all headed back into the bookshop.

Several bottles, many, many stories of heroic misdeeds, and one minor fire later, the Nac Mac Feegle finally left. Each one sticking a foot out in front, flexing it and stepping back into their own dimension. 

Crowley turned to Aziraphale where they sat on the sofa, Aziraphale reclined comfortably, Crowley sprawled as usual, but with a bit more attention paid to where his legs were with the kilt on. "Nice of you to teach them the fire trick Angel. I'm sure they'll put it to good use."

Aziraphale didn't look too sure. He surveyed the char mark that he'd yet to miracle out of the carpet, a souvenir of a minor disagreement over how many Pictsies could dance on the head of a pin. He turned to Crowley with a slightly stricken look on his face. 

"Oh Lord, Crowley, what have I done?!"

* * *

Lord Beelzebub had been in her office, when she heard the skittering noise behind her. She would have said a rodent, but you didn’t get animals in Hell. Apparently they were innocents by default, having not eaten the apple and all that. Cats were borderline, but Gabriel liked them so they snuck up there too. You got the occasional cat that displayed a bit more free will than the others, but they usually swanned in, found a warm spot by a patch of hellfire, and charmed the demons into doing their bidding until Lord Beelzebub could chase them out again. 

So not a rodent. Lord Beelzebub got up from her desk and went to look in the corner next to the grimy filing cabinet. She heard rustling back at her desk and spun around quickly, and there it was.

A duck.

A yellow, rubber duck.

Sat on her desk, giving her a vaguely familiar look.

It wasn’t there a moment ago, but there was only one person it could have come from.

She advanced with a snarl, prepared to tear it to pieces but as she reached out she felt the divinity rolling off of it so strongly that she couldn’t touch it without being burned. The paperwork on her desk was starting to char as it was. 

The room went cold as she picked up the phone. 

* * *

Michael had been sat at their desk when they heard the pattering of tiny feet. Now you did get animals in heaven, but they generally went to their own separate area, each animal having their own idea of Heaven. You rarely got rodents up this far, but they wouldn’t put it past one of Gabriel’s cats causing mischief. They leant down under the desk to get a better look, and heard the noise of feet running over the top. They sat back up abruptly, hoping to catch the culprit, but instead found they’d left something behind. 

Their desk was now covered with a large towel. 

A large, white bath towel to be exact. 

They could feel the damnation woven into the fibres of it. It was so cursed that they couldn’t risk touching it for fear of contamination. They pursed their lips in rage. No rodent could bring that up here, there was only one place it could have come from. 

Then their phone rang. 

“Lord Beelzebub! I was just thinking of you. To what do I owe this pleasure?”

“There’s a rubber duck sat in the middle of my fucking desk, and it’s so stuffed full of blessings that I can’t sodding touch it!” She said, rage hissing through her voice. 

“What a coincidence. I happen to have just come into posession of a bath towel so putrid with damnation that I cannot touch it either. Perhaps we can come to some sort of discrete arrangement…”

“Yeah, whatever, just get this horrible thing out of here. It’s sneering at me. Looks like that twat Gabriel.”

A short while later, Michael returned to their desk holding the divine duck, that did indeed look like Gabriel somehow, and Lord Beelzebub retreated back down below bearing a new bath towel that was so riddled with evil that it made her giddy just holding it. 

They agreed never to talk of it again.

**Author's Note:**

> My apologies this was meant to be Crowley having some fun, but Aziraphale barged in with a good idea and sort of stole the show. If I think of any good (bad) things for Crowley to do with the Wee Free Men I'll add an update!


End file.
